


made myself a stranger (but you still know my name)

by susiecarter



Category: Original Work
Genre: Failboats In Love, M/M, Mutual Deceit, Mutual Manipulation, Politics, Relationship of Convenience, Unintentional Redemption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-08-03 02:40:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16317578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiecarter/pseuds/susiecarter
Summary: Giuanne swirled his cup of wine idly, leaning back against one gleaming marble column, and did his best to look self-important, disdainful, and a little bit bored.It wasn't difficult.At least not until Aurelio arrived. But then it had been that way for weeks, months. Giuanne had lost all hope of mastering himself in that regard. Because Aurelio had no idea Giuanne was using him and always had been, cold and clear-eyed and deliberate; and he had no idea Giuanne was in love with him; and Giuanne could speak of neither, even as it sickened him with hot helpless guilt to hold his silence.





	made myself a stranger (but you still know my name)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alley_Skywalker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alley_Skywalker/gifts).



> I may have stretched the definition of "diplomat" a bit, but I just couldn't resist your prompts for this pairing, Alley_Skywalker! Especially the combination of a) having started the relationship with an eye to information-gathering and b) feelings turning genuine, plus or minus (sort of) secretly working together to keep rival political entities at peace. :D I hope this has enough politics, complicated motives, worldbuilding, angst, and banter for you, and that you've had a wonderful OWEx!
> 
> This borrows heavily and obviously from Italian history, dumps it in with some fantasy elements and a couple things I just plain made up, and stirs. A quick note to clarify a reference that might otherwise be unclear: "maschera" is the Italian word for "mask", but "maschere" is also used in reference to masked male stock characters in the commedia dell'arte. Also, the lone line treated as an actual line from a song comes from a love poem by Dante.

 

 

Giuanne swirled his cup of wine idly, leaning back against one gleaming marble column, and did his best to look self-important, disdainful, and a little bit bored.

It wasn't difficult. Everyone here knew perfectly well who he was, and that Giuanne Mecossu of Ardegna was a rich man's third son who'd never wanted to be sent to Caromena; who'd been appointed to the low-level diplomatic post he currently occupied not because he was careful or clever, not because anyone had owed him favors, but to get him out of the way. And of course that Mecossu fellow hadn't the brains to handle the matter with grace, nor to use the opportunity to make something of himself nevertheless. No, certainly not. All he ever seemed to do was get in trouble: drink himself halfway to oblivion, start fights, and laze around making snide remarks at dozens of parties exactly like this one.

Which meant that as Giuanne cast an eye over the room, approximately half of its occupants ignored him; another third deliberately turned away to avoid even appearing to have met his gaze; and the rest were looking back at him speculatively, already hoping he'd insult someone, have a drink thrown in his face, or otherwise manage to make their evening more interesting.

As if the bounty of Maria di Brivio's hospitality weren't enough. The hall was lit with more lanterns than Giuanne cared to count—half of them with their delicate glass panes tinted one shade or another, so that they cast soft shimmering light at least as colorful as any decently-skilled incantore might. Across the long tables were arrayed breads and cheeses, fruit, meat, wine, and enough of each to serve twice as many people as were already in attendance. From here Giuanne couldn't see the musicians di Brivio had contracted for the night, but he could hear them, even over all the laughter and chatter. There wasn't much room to move in here, but no doubt the courtyard beyond the hall had been opened up for dancing; the occasional high sweet strain of violin or flute wandered in with the cool night breeze.

In Ardegna, the bread would be darker, the cheese paler. There would be fish; that cool night breeze would smell of sea. And probably the incantori at the far end of the hall would be casting little glittering charms, to be handed away at the end of the night to the guests, instead of whatever they were doing here—Giuanne squinted. Ah. Using some minor incanto or other to render scraps of thread and bits of straw into blooming flowers. Charming enough, Giuanne thought.

But in most respects, this was all of a piece with every such gathering Giuanne had ever attended, whether in Ardegna or Caromena, or for that matter anywhere else. He should probably consider it merely added benefit, that his boredom needn't be entirely feigned.

Except the natural consequence of allowing his expression to take on any sincerity was that for a moment he reacted with entirely too much frankness, when at last Aurelio arrived.

He couldn't help it. It had been this way for weeks, months; he had lost all hope of mastering himself in this regard. He glanced across the hall again, lifting his wine absently to his mouth for a sip, and he couldn't even say what it was he recognized first: the breadth of Aurelio's shoulders, the particular diffident manner in which he ducked his head. That glorious wild fall of dark curls, or the long straight line of the nose, echoed in the firmness of the jaw, the chin.

He felt his own breath catch—worse, he _heard_ it. He knew he must look away, but couldn't do it, and then it was too late; Aurelio smiled with bland politeness at Patrizio di Vonarola, turning a little to allow the man to kiss his cheek and clap him on the shoulder, and when he did his gaze skipped sideways across the crowd and, as luck should have it, passed across Giuanne.

And snapped back to him, recognizing him properly, and then Aurelio smiled.

Giuanne tipped the cup against his mouth; he could no longer taste the wine, but at least he had the excuse to swallow hard. Aurelio murmured something to di Vonarola, ducked past and began to weave his way through the hall, unfairly light on his feet for such a tall and angular man—and all without looking away from Giuanne. The smile broadened just a little, just enough so that when Aurelio had reached Giuanne at last, there was a dimple tucking itself into the lean curve of Aurelio's cheek.

And Giuanne must have drunk more wine than he'd realized, waiting and playing at boredom, because he found he'd reached to touch it as Aurelio came within arm's length of him.

Aurelio slowed a little and let him, and still, still, didn't look away; and then the smile was gone, and his eyes were dark and he was very close, and he said quietly, "Giuanne."

"There is no greater pleasure in this world," Giuanne murmured, "than for a man to hear his name said in such a way by you," and at least he was still capable of the sticky-sweet flirtatious tone in which such a thing ought to be said.

Aurelio laughed—but only a little, and then he leaned in and took the cup from Giuanne's abruptly useless fingers, tipped Giuanne's chin up with his free hand, and brought their mouths together.

Once, twice; softly, briefly, just to say good evening. Nothing that should have ended with Giuanne's arm hooked round Aurelio's shoulders, and yet that was where it was, when Aurelio broke away.

"Flatterer," Aurelio said against Giuanne's cheek, low and fond, and Giuanne leaned away and affected mock outrage.

"What? Nonsense," Giuanne insisted, and then somehow he was—he was touching Aurelio still, reaching for his hand; but ah, lucky him, it was the hand with which Aurelio held Giuanne's wine, and he could turn that stupid thoughtless movement into something deliberate: raising Aurelio's hand with the cup still in it and tilting it to his mouth for a sip. "Nonsense," he said again. "Surely you might only rightly name it flattery were it untrue."

Aurelio laughed again and shook his head, and then with a sly little glance turned their hands, the cup, so that he might drink himself from the curve of it just where Giuanne's own mouth had been. Giuanne watched him sip, watched his throat move as he swallowed, as if from a distance, and then realized all at once that Aurelio had begun to speak again. "You're teasing me," he was saying, "you wretched flirt—but I forgive you. Giuanne, it has happened: di Pavoli did as she'd promised, and mentioned my name to d'Opruzzio, and also my interest in all manner of obscure and unusual incanti. It is done!"

Giuanne raised an eyebrow, and murmured, "It?"

Mildly, a little absently. As if he had forgotten; as if it were a matter of no consequence.

"Yes! You must remember, I've been boring you half to tears carrying on about it. They say d'Abelardi—that genius incantora, you know, the signore himself is her patron—they say she has made some sort of breakthrough, though no one knows quite what it might be. But there will be a demonstration, di Pavoli told me, and now at last d'Opruzzio has issued me an invitation. It arrived just this afternoon."

Giuanne arranged his face in the look of a man who if he strained himself could recall having heard some of this before; but by the end, Aurelio was beaming so delightedly at him that he couldn't help but smile. "Well, congratulations, my dear friend," he said, and leaned over to the nearest table to snag a second cup of wine. "I need only know that you are happy to consider the occasion worth celebrating."

Aurelio grinned at him. "Lucky me," he said, "for there's no one else in all Caromena I'd rather celebrate it with," and he ignored the wine entirely to press Giuanne back against that marble column and kiss him again.

 

 

It was a blissfully wonderful evening, passed that way.

Which was to say it should have been. Giuanne couldn't complain of the food, or the entertainment, or the company; there was, in fact, nothing in all the world he would have preferred to a night of Aurelio's undivided attention, Aurelio's hands upon him, Aurelio's shoulder pressed to his. Kisses that grew gradually deeper, as the evening did likewise, and Aurelio's dark eyes and sweetly flushed face, close enough to touch.

He also couldn't complain of the wine, which he drank perhaps a bit too much of in a grimly hopeless effort to make all the rest of this relentless abundance easier to bear. Because, oh, to be given so much of what he wanted most, and freely: it was excruciating, it was agony.

Because Aurelio had no idea Giuanne was using him and always had been, cold and clear-eyed and deliberate; and he had no idea Giuanne was in love with him; and Giuanne could speak of neither, even as it sickened him with hot helpless guilt to hold his silence.

It hadn't always been this way, of course.

Far from it. When Giuanne had first arrived in Caromena, it had all been very simple. He'd been appointed to a position that was officially one of diplomacy; unofficially, to every Caromeno noble with any sense, all that had needed to be determined had been whether he was a spy or an unlucky idiot, and thus he'd done all he could to ensure that the balance of opinion would fall on the side of "unlucky idiot".

It had only been as much as he'd expected. Among all seventeen of the various competing comuni of Adripina, at this point it was considered a polite and considerate gesture, even an initial overture of goodwill, to fill your diplomatic delegation with spies rather than underhandedly conceal them elsewhere.

But Giuanne meant to be as underhandedly concealed about what he was here for as he could manage. There were Ardegno spies whose purposes were served by the tacit understanding that that was exactly what they were; Giuanne wasn't one of them. Because Oriana d'Abelardi was the most skilled incantora in modern history, and she had accepted the patronage of the signore of Caromena. And the signora of Ardegna wanted badly to know whatever secret wonders might or might not be accomplished by Caromena as a result. Not the ordinary byplay of traded whispers, move and countermove, that had characterized the interactions of the comuni for so long, but a desperate effort to defend against a threat of uncertain magnitude.

So Giuanne had been sent. Giuanne had been sent and had made a spectacle of himself until Caromeno curiosity had been satisfied, and then he had found a well-connected Caromeno nobleman at whom he could shamelessly throw himself to see what he could learn.

He'd chosen Aurelio for—for the most unremarkable of reasons. Because as long as he was required to cozy up to some self-important Caromeno lackwit, it might as well be one he liked the look of. He already had to tell so many lies; why not make this one small thing a little easier? Why not pick a man who appealed to his tastes, so at least he could enjoy himself while he was busy sniffing out secrets for the signora?

And so Aurelio had happened to him, and he had no one to blame for it but himself.

It had come upon him gradually, so gradually he'd hardly perceived it at first. He'd ascertained early on that Aurelio di Favero was pleasant, well-liked—all for the best, he'd thought at the time, since a man with many friends was a man who knew many things. Aurelio was earnest, sincere—good, good, Giuanne had thought. People talked to a face like that, to attentive dark eyes and an expressive mouth. He'd learned Aurelio's ways, a bit at a time: that he was no incantore, but intrigued by their work nonetheless; that he possessed grand, if abstracted, political opinions about the need for unity across all Adripina. That he was courteous and kind, principled, an idealist.

That he was beautiful when he smiled.

In any case, it became clear enough in time that Giuanne would have to adjust his own maschera, so to speak. The essence must remain; too great a change in manner would draw attention. But cynicism, an edge of disdain, too self-indulgent a taste for Caromeno pleasures—these things, in too generous a portion, would draw the ire rather than the interest of someone like Aurelio.

It was only reasonable, then, that Giuanne should better himself a little. Be clever, if undeniably lazy; be generous, if also unreliable. Be considerate, though only occasionally.

Be honest, as rarely as possible. Except—

Except he'd needed _something_ , some confession to make, some vulnerability to display. That was the sort of thing that would be required for Aurelio to—to feel they weren't only acquaintances, but friends. To feel that Giuanne Mecossu, whatever his flaws, was someone Aurelio might speak to freely and frankly; that there was an understanding between them that invited particular openness.

In retrospect, of course, he should have known better. He shouldn't have picked something that mattered. The moment he had found himself looking into Aurelio's eyes—because after all, he had thought wryly, people talked to a face like that—and saying, _Because I'm nothing, no one. Because I'm expendable, disposable, because I have never mattered and they all know it_ —

It had been true. It had been true in ways Aurelio couldn't possibly have understood; because the signora of Ardegna, much as she might appreciate Giuanne exercising his skills on her behalf, wouldn't have sent him to Caromena if she weren't prepared to hear some fine morning that he'd died in an inexplicable accident. Because if instead he survived, it wouldn't be because he'd kept to the shadows—it would be because he had been seen, and assessed as insignificant. Such a success would be double-edged, bitter. Giuanne knew himself too well to think otherwise.

And of course he'd meant it to be true, so Aurelio would see his sincerity and be moved in response. That had been what he'd wanted. And yet he'd wanted it for himself, too, pure and helpless and greedy: for a man like that to look at him with sweetness and affection, to touch his hand, his face, and tell him _You're wrong, Giuanne. You're wrong. You are precious; you are irreplaceable_ —

Which had been exactly what Aurelio had done. And in that moment, Giuanne should have known that Aurelio would be dangerous to him in ways he hadn't been prepared for at all.

 

 

So: wine.

Probably a great deal more than was wise, but then Giuanne had never claimed to be a wise man—only a reasonably clever one.

And reasonable cleverness wasn't enough to keep his hands off Aurelio, of course, but fortunately Aurelio didn't seem to mind too much. He leaned into Giuanne and smiled, gazed at Giuanne warmly with those lovely dark eyes and didn't brush Giuanne's fingers away from his arms, his shoulders, his hair, the warm bare expanse of the side of his throat. In between cups of wine, tidbits of various breads and cheeses that Aurelio insisted Giuanne try a taste of, they laughed and kissed and murmured to each other, and Giuanne could almost forget it was all an unbearable disaster.

His lack of caution did him no ill, at least for a while. After all, Giuanne told himself, it was best if Aurelio looked at him and saw a man besotted, wasn't it? It was best if Aurelio thought Giuanne couldn't get enough of him and wanted him terribly. That he thought it because it was true was incidental.

It had grown late enough to be called very early when at last Giuanne erred.

Only a little, but it was enough. The lanterns had been dimmed, and the incantori at the far end of the hall—the ones who had not fallen asleep drunk in corners, anyway—were casting incanti in patterns of light across the ceiling, glittering like stars and fluttering like butterflies, a thousand different colors. It was beautiful stuff, or at least what Giuanne could see of it from the corner of his eye: he couldn't look away from Aurelio, who was leaning against his shoulder, face tilted up, watching the dancing lights shimmering above them and smiling.

And then Aurelio's gaze shifted from the ceiling to Giuanne, and something crossed his face that Giuanne didn't understand, a brief but unmistakable look of—of grave tenderness, strange and sweet and sad in a way that was bewildering and unfamiliar on him.

"Giuanne," he whispered, and Giuanne realized belatedly that he had no idea what his own face might have been doing; it was dim, with so much of the light in the hall now cast by those soft incanti over them, and surely Aurelio couldn't see him well at all.

"Aurelio—"

"Giuanne, are you all right? You were—" Aurelio paused, reaching up with the deliberate care of the moderately drunk to brush his fingertips along Giuanne's cheek. "You looked so unhappy, just then."

"Unhappy? Whyever should I be unhappy," Giuanne said, permitting himself not even the slightest hint of bitterness, "when here beside me sits all that I desire in this world?"

Aurelio huffed a disbelieving breath through his nose; but he had started to smile again, just a little.

"Unhappy," Giuanne repeated, and reached up himself to rub a thumb along that bold strong jaw. "No. No—it was only a trick of the light," and before Aurelio could press him further, Giuanne bent his head and brought their mouths together.

They kissed like that for a little while, seated and curving into each other, slow and unhurried. When they had first begun all this, oh, they had been much too impatient for such a thing, had fallen into bed together and kissed, touched, moved, all in a furious rush. But now it had been long enough that there wasn't any need for such haste, and Giuanne had discovered, with a certain rueful resignation, that in fact if given the opportunity he could kiss Aurelio for hours and be utterly satisfied.

Sooner or later even the incanti dimmed. At some point, Giuanne realized, the music had stopped too; the crowd had thinned long ago, and though there were still murmurs, soft voices speaking in corners, Giuanne suspected their words were meant only for whichever pair of ears was closest.

Luckily, the manor house of di Favero wasn't far at all from the di Brivio estate. Together, he and Aurelio managed to attain their feet, and Giuanne was still quite drunk but not too drunk to walk—and Aurelio had had less than he, and was taller besides. Stepping out into the cool night air refreshed Giuanne further, and suddenly he felt much less as though his neck couldn't hold up his head. Though of course he didn't bother to shake off the steadying arm Aurelio had put around him.

Quite the opposite: he leaned into it and let his head tip back against Aurelio's shoulder, and found himself humming.

"What is that?" Aurelio murmured.

"A song," Giuanne said, teasing; and Aurelio laughed, and to thank him for it Giuanne relented and sang a little.

Only a little, and half nonsense, for he couldn't remember all the words but the tune came readily—he made up the lines that wouldn't shake themselves loose in his memory, _I felt awoken in my heart some loving spirit that was sleeping_ only half a verse and followed up promptly with _but then again perhaps it was some little silver fish a-leaping_ —

"Oh, that isn't how it goes, Giuanne!"

"It might be," Giuanne said, prim and haughty, as if offended; and Aurelio laughed again and tugged him close and kissed him. And lucky indeed that the manor house of di Favero was so close, or Giuanne might have had to beg Aurelio to do something obscene to him right there in the street instead.

 

 

It didn't surprise or disorient Giuanne when he woke later in Aurelio's bed. He cracked an eye open, and knew by the way the dim pre-dawn light fell across the wall what hour it was; and by the feel of the bed beneath him which room they'd tumbled into in the end—definitely Aurelio's, which was for the best. The time they'd had each other on the floor in a side room and been woken by a very surprised maidservant hadn't been so unpleasant as all that, but it still wasn't an experience Giuanne had been longing to repeat.

And of course that warmth beside him, solid and sweetly tempting, was Aurelio. Giuanne closed his eyes again and bit his lip hard, bracing for it as best he could, and then permitted himself to look: and even though he'd told himself to be prepared for it, oh, it stole the breath from his chest regardless, to look across the pillows and see Aurelio there.

Turned toward Giuanne, still, and with all those glorious curls tumbled this way and that around his sleeping face. He looked blissfully comfortable, entirely relaxed—not the least sign of tension showed around his mouth or across his brow.

Because he shared his bed with Giuanne, whom he knew no better than to trust.

Giuanne shut his eyes again, and twisted round onto his back, pressing his thumb to the bridge of his nose. The worst part of the whole thing, he thought distantly, wasn't even what he was doing to Aurelio; it was that he hadn't stopped. He could have done something: picked a fight, caused some scandal. He could have spoken harshly, more cruelly than Aurelio could forgive. He could bring this to an end, find someone else. Except—

Except he was too selfish. Not that there weren't other reasons, if he wanted them. Even the news Aurelio had given him earlier was justification enough to continue; Aurelio had been invited to a private demonstration of d'Abelardi's latest breakthrough, and what exactly that demonstration might consist of was precisely the sort of thing Giuanne had been appointed to this post to learn.

Justification enough but for all the ways it wasn't. It was almost funny, when he thought about it. The very attachment that managed to make Giuanne's entire purpose in Caromena feel like a cheap excuse to cling to Aurelio a little longer also made it damn near impossible to pry his own grip loose. His loyalty to the signora and to Ardegna aside, he was helplessly conscious that what he did to Aurelio was wrong, and he was conscious of it because he loved Aurelio; and yet he kept doing it, and this also because he loved Aurelio, with a terrible greedy strength he hadn't even known himself capable of.

"What a fine mess you've gotten yourself into," he murmured to the palm of his hand, rubbing it across his face. And then he rolled cautiously, smoothly from the bed, so Aurelio wouldn't wake, and went and stood out on the balcony to watch the sun rise over the city.

 

 

He couldn't have said how long it was before Aurelio rose and joined him—long enough that the sun had risen, the distant mountains painted pink and gold beyond the city walls, birds coming awake in the gardens beneath the balcony and the sounds of people in the street beyond, the rattle of carts rolling by.

Giuanne stood suspended above it all, silent and gazing out, and he couldn't have said what it was he looked for if he'd been asked.

But Aurelio didn't ask. Giuanne heard him move, the brush of bare feet against stone, and felt the warmth of him a moment before his hands settled onto Giuanne's shoulders, the whole long line of him against Giuanne's back, his mouth a soft teasing heat at the juncture of Giuanne's throat and shoulder. "Good morning," he murmured, and Giuanne shivered at the sensation of the words as they were breathed against his skin, and then turned in Aurelio's arms and kissed him.

Selfish. But then he'd never tried to imply otherwise; he'd never done anything that ought to lead Aurelio to expect better from him. Perhaps Aurelio would never find out at all.

As if it were any less selfish of Giuanne, to hope Aurelio might not realize what sort of man it was he'd let into his bed.

Giuanne kept his eyes shut and kissed Aurelio harder—and Aurelio shifted a little, startled, and then pressed close, wrapping a hand around the nape of Giuanne's neck and leaning in, welcoming.

"Though the merits of tumbling back into bed with you are clearly many," he said warmly, when he'd eased back to catch his breath, "I'm afraid I must resist."

Giuanne mastered himself; he linked his hands behind Aurelio's head and leaned back against the balustrade, and by the time his face was properly visible to Aurelio, he was pouting in petty dismay. "Must you?"

"Unhappily, yes," Aurelio said with a laugh, and darted in to brush his mouth against one corner of Giuanne's and then the other, and then the tip of his nose. "For, you see—I suppose it's unkind of me to say, but you'll still be here this evening, and tomorrow, and—if I'm lucky—many more days after. Whereas an invitation to be among the first to witness the genius of d'Abelardi, well. Surely I can't count on lightning such as that to strike me twice."

Oh. Of course. Giuanne had—had almost forgotten.

"So you see I must eat something," Aurelio was saying, "and dress, and make myself presentable; and I'd better find some sort of gift to deliver to d'Opruzzio, to express my gratitude. And probably also something for di Pavoli, come to that, for d'Opruzzio would never have spared a thought for me if not for her—"

Giuanne made a face. "Yes, yes, all right," he said. "I see the nature of things: gifts for d'Opruzzio, for di Pavoli, for half of Caromena, while I'm abandoned to languish in solitude—"

All the sourness in his tone was, of course, for naught: Aurelio only beamed at him, and then kissed him again. "Nonsense! Stay here, Giuanne—I'll have a servant bring up something for you, and you may lie about in my bed at your ease, and never dress at all. And when I come back, perhaps I'll bring something for you, too."

Giuanne agreed with this, after Aurelio kissed him coaxingly a few more times, and told himself it was because it was only practical. Whatever it was Aurelio saw at d'Abelardi's demonstration, Giuanne meant to hear of it; and it couldn't possibly make him suspicious, if Giuanne asked him about it when he returned.

He helped Aurelio force a comb through his hair, though it looked nearly the same before and after, and only distracted him a little while he hunted for clothing. And then with a smile and a farewell press of lips to Giuanne's cheek, Aurelio was gone.

Giuanne sat in the silence he'd left in his wake, and made himself breathe. He ought to take Aurelio's words for the profound advice they were: he could be stupid over Aurelio later, tomorrow, for far too many days after; but right now Aurelio was gone, and Giuanne could guess approximately how long he would be away, and only one interruption—whichever servant might be tasked with helping him break his fast—was at all likely.

What more could he ask?

 

 

He waited for the servant to appear, and made sure he was lounging in Aurelio's bed when she arrived; he waved her in idly, yawning, and stretched languorously as she entered and set down a tray. He roused himself enough to thank her, and agree that no, there was nothing else he needed, and then sank back down among the sheets. And he lay there with his eyes closed and waited until he could no longer hear her steps in the corridor before he kicked the bed linens away and rose.

He did eat—there was no reason not to, and he was hungry. Aurelio's chambers constituted perhaps half this wing of the house, and he didn't even need to venture out into the corridor to fetch himself some vellum from Aurelio's study, for there was a connecting door.

When he left Ardegna, he'd been given what was ostensibly a gift from the signora—but in fact it was a tool, that he might perform the work he'd been sent to do. A quill, set with incanti so powerful that even now the tracery left behind in the working of them still glowed along its length. The words written with it appeared not on whatever sheet he put it to before him, but rather on vellum prepared with equal care, somewhere in the hands of some official of the signora's.

But he still needed to use ink to do it—and of course if anyone should see him, he couldn't pretend he'd been writing himself a note without any sign of material to write it on.

So: vellum, and ink besides. He sat at the table for a little while, beside the half-empty tray, and tried to think of what to say and how. He only realized how long he'd been doing it, and that he'd written precisely nothing, when he moved at last to set quill to page and discovered his first dip of ink had quite thoroughly dried. Fortunately, it hadn't been long enough that he could say the same about the rest of the ink in the pot.

At last he managed to scratch out a few words— _something new from d'Abelardi; only rumor, but found an in for private demonstration; more later_. It wouldn't worry whoever happened to read it at the other end. In contrast to his current persona, Giuanne liked to keep his reports terse, stripped down to the essentials. As if he were in truth the man who could write such things, clear-headed and dispassionate, and not merely pretending at it as at everything else.

He put everything away after, not out of a sense of caution but because it would occupy him a little longer than if he didn't. As he crept back from the study, he heard bells from the distant piazza—noon, then. Aurelio would probably be dining now, alongside d'Abelardi's other guests, and then—

And then, probably, he would come back. And whatever he let slip about what he'd seen d'Abelardi do, Giuanne would pretend not to care and memorize every word, and ruin the best thing that had ever happened to him a little bit more.

 

 

He wasn't wrong: it didn't take long after that for Aurelio to return.

He had to swallow down a pointless surge of apprehension at the sound of Aurelio's footsteps. He'd determined months ago that there wasn't any purpose in fleeing Aurelio's bed when given the opportunity: if he were lucky, Aurelio wouldn't care one way or the other, and he'd only have deprived himself of a chance to pretend at sleep and eavesdrop, or converse with Aurelio further; and if he were unlucky, Aurelio would take offense, grow frustrated or irritated with his callousness and discard him all the sooner.

That had been before he'd realized he didn't _want_ to leave Aurelio's bed, but of course by then it had been too late to alter his habits without Aurelio noticing. And now—

Now, he couldn't seem to shake some irrational preoccupation with the idea that Aurelio would have wanted him to go, would come in and say, _Oh, it's you—what are you still doing here?_ As if they hadn't agreed that Giuanne might as well linger! But the heart couldn't be reasoned with in such a way, no matter how Giuanne tried.

He made himself look up, as Aurelio reached the doorway, with the sort of blandly pleasant expression that might be expected of a man who hadn't been secretly communicating with another government or hopelessly pining for the fellow he was already fucking at all.

And then he saw Aurelio properly, and went still in his chair. He couldn't have said why, exactly; it was only—something about Aurelio's face, a strange grave look about the eyes, the mouth pressed flat. Aurelio should, if anything, have been in raptures, seeing d'Abelardi's work firsthand at last. But instead he paused silently, just within the doorway, for so long that Giuanne no longer knew what to think. And then all at once he crossed the room and said, "Giuanne," very soft and level, tipped Giuanne's face up and kissed him; and the kiss was strange, too, careful and lingering.

Giuanne broke away after a moment, bewildered. "Aurelio, what—"

"Giuanne," Aurelio said again, staring at him searchingly. And then something happened, though Giuanne couldn't quite name it: as though some decision Giuanne wasn't privy to had been made. For Aurelio's jaw firmed and his hand tightened on Giuanne's arm, and he looked at Giuanne very steadily, clear-eyed, and said, "Giuanne, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, but this is too important."

"Aurelio—"

"I can't afford to wait for you to pry it out of me," Aurelio said, and Giuanne felt as though all the air had left the room at once, as though he'd been struck, as though he'd been thrown into the sea.

He couldn't speak, couldn't think. He was abruptly, terribly aware that they were alone in the room, and quite possibly in all this wing of the manor house; and that if Aurelio killed him and called it accident—shoved him off the balcony, perhaps—there would not be much in the way of effort to hold an inquiry.

"I know," Aurelio said, far too calmly. "I know who you are, Giuanne, and why you came to Caromena, and—" There, briefly, he stumbled. "And why it was my bed you chose, I imagine. Some other day I would have been content to make conversation with you and let drop whatever information I could, but it's as I said: this is too important."

"What is too important?" Giuanne made himself say, and was distantly impressed he hadn't choked on the words.

"What d'Abelardi has done," Aurelio said. "You must understand, I had no idea. I didn't think it was possible. I'm sure it's nothing she had intended—but if you'd seen d'Opruzzio's face, Giuanne—"

"What is that supposed to mean?" Giuanne asked, even and precise; and Aurelio stopped and looked at him and then blew out a quick breath.

"The incanto she worked. Giuanne, it was—she called it 'sleeping'. She cast it into place, and then—" Aurelio made a helpless uncomprehending gesture. "And then it was gone. She put it on a vase. And then she touched the vase, and nothing happened. And then she invited di Pavoli up to touch it, and when di Pavoli touched it, it became a bird."

Giuanne stared at him.

Because of course he was quite right: it shouldn't have been possible. Incanti were cast, and their effects were observed. The incantori at di Brivio's had made flowers, colored lights, immediate and visible. Giuanne's own message-quill was more complex, yes, more difficult, but operated upon the same principle: the incanti that governed its function had been in force when it was given to him, and had been in force when he wrote with it, and were in force now even though it was only tucked away in his coat. If Aurelio took it out and dipped it in—in water, and sketched figures in the air, those figures would still be written out upon a page somewhere in distant Ardegna. It couldn't be reined to a halt like a horse, and then urged on again.

If d'Abelardi had cast upon a vase to make it a bird, it should have become a bird the moment the incanto was complete, and thereafter remain a bird. And di Pavoli was no incantora, had done nothing but _touch_ it—

"And of course d'Abelardi is a genius," Aurelio was saying. "She wants nothing more than to understand how things work, and why; to learn what rules govern their functions, and what they are capable of. She gives these demonstrations because the signore wishes to show her off, and because she only has to do two or three and he'll let her alone and leave her in her workshop the rest of the time. She doesn't see what this is except—except an advancement in the theory." He stopped again, and looked at Giuanne carefully. "But you do. Don't you, Giuanne?"

"Yes," Giuanne said.

"It was 'sleeping'," Aurelio repeated. "Sleeping, and she could—somehow she made it wake for di Pavoli. Think of it, Giuanne: a cup of wine, the wax seal of a letter, an earring. _Anything_ could wake that way, under the touch of anyone she chose, and not into a bird but—but an asp, a crossbow with a loaded bolt." He rubbed his free hand across his face. "It staggers the mind. I wonder what there is in it for d'Opruzzio, what he has told the signore. What the signore intends to do with it—one at a time? Or will all the signori in Adripina fall dead in a night but for him, and make him sovrano by morning?"

Giuanne swallowed, once and then again, and made himself say very coolly, "And you wanted me to know. Why?"

Aurelio looked at him, and it was—he'd been caught up, unthinking, speaking with all the urgent enthusiasm Giuanne had seen him display before over obscure incanti and complex castings successfully carried out. But now, Giuanne saw, he remembered: who he spoke to, and what had been said, and what it meant. And he gazed at Giuanne with those wide dark eyes Giuanne had always thought so sincere, and he said softly, "Well. I did say I might bring you something," and then held out—

"A spoon," Giuanne said, and was struck with a sudden wild urge to laugh.

As though he knew and felt it likewise, Aurelio's mouth twitched. "I had questions for d'Abelardi; I was permitted to approach her worktable. This was set in a row alongside the vase, and three or four other objects she also had cast upon. It must have some incanti worked over it, though I don't know what."

"And you want me to have it sent to Ardegna," Giuanne said slowly.

"There must be some way to—to detect it," Aurelio said. "To discover a sleeping incanto and strip it away, or wake it where it can do no harm. Giuanne, d'Opruzzio and the signore and whoever else, they may think this is Caromena's good fortune. That at last we are given advantage over our neighbors, our rivals, by the grace of d'Abelardi. But I don't see good fortune in this. I see chaos, chaos that will consume Ardegna as surely as it consumes Caromena. I don't want that, and neither do you."

Giuanne watched Aurelio for a long moment, and said nothing. He didn't know what he was looking for; Aurelio had seemed honest all along, had been lying all along. Clearly Giuanne's judgment of such matters couldn't be trusted.

"And how," he murmured softly at last, "am I supposed to be sure this isn't a trap of its own?"

Aurelio didn't look angry; Giuanne almost wished he would. But instead he was only startled, for a brief instant. And then he understood, and his expression went calm and clear, unwavering.

"How do I know this isn't the signore's first move in the game?" Giuanne went on, before Aurelio could speak—because he wanted to say it, wanted Aurelio to understand that he saw and thought clearly even as his heart was wrung out in his chest. "Having you give me this, telling me three-quarters of the truth—so I'll nod along and send it to my masters in Ardegna, where it can drop them all dead at once—"

"It's not a trap, Giuanne," Aurelio said, almost gently, and then he lowered a hand to the tray.

The tray of food that had been brought up—and the knife Giuanne had let clatter carelessly down against the edge of it, once he had eaten his fill.

Giuanne went frozen with uncertainty. Stupid, of course, for that only gave Aurelio more time to wrap his hand around the hilt, to lift the knife and turn it, and when Giuanne belatedly raised an arm to meet it, to—

To settle his hand within the open curve of Giuanne's, so when Giuanne's fingers tightened in reflex, they closed around Aurelio's knuckles, around the hilt of the knife; and the blade was pointed toward Aurelio.

Who leaned in close, watching Giuanne's face and not the knife, until the edge of it was pressed against his throat.

"I trust you," Aurelio said, very softly. "I shouldn't. The moment I understood who you were, why you had picked me—I should never have spoken to you again. But I know who you are, and I trust you. This is more important than Caromena, more important than Ardegna. I believe you understand that, and I believe you to be the kind of man to whom that matters. And if I'm wrong, then I suppose you might as well kill me right now."

Giuanne looked into those clear dark eyes and thought about it. Tried to be sensible: tried to weigh the odds that this too was a ploy, that Aurelio knew some Ardegno diplomat couldn't be found in a room with a murdered di Favero and expect to leave the city alive.

The trouble was, he discovered distantly, it didn't matter. It didn't matter. Suddenly he couldn't stand to see that knife pressed to Aurelio's throat one instant longer, and he jerked away from Aurelio and opened his hand, threw the blade away from him and heard it skitter across the floor.

"Giuanne—"

"Aurelio," he said, and it came out cracked and hoarse and strange. His face was wet, his eyes stung; he didn't know why.

"Giuanne," Aurelio said again, very low, and kissed him.

 

 

The arrangements weren't all that difficult to make, in the end.

Of course, Aurelio was a great deal of help. The courier Giuanne found near the edge of the city heard his Ardegno accent, and looked at him warily—until Aurelio stepped out of the shadows likewise and threw back the hood of his cloak, and then she relaxed.

Aurelio had more money, too, when she weighed the pouch Giuanne had given her against the task she'd been set and visibly found it wanting.

But at last she agreed that she would take the little package to Ardegna, and not look in it or open it or give it to anyone else, and she swore it on the sea and stars and mountains, all three. Which was for the best, Giuanne thought wryly, because if she did open it and found only a silver spoon, she'd probably give the whole thing up as foolishness, and name the two of them madmen, and throw the spoon in a river.

"And when you arrive," Giuanne added, before she could ride away, "you must only give that package up to the person who says—who says 'silver fish a-leaping' to you. Understand?"

She gave him a flat look past her horse's cocked ear. "No," she said, "I don't understand at all; but I'll do it, sir."

And Aurelio laughed and reached up to clap her on the arm, and then she inclined her head to them both and was away, and probably would even make it to the city wall before the gates were closed for the night.

After that they were back to the manor house, because Giuanne needed more ink and a quiet place to write out a message to Ardegna again—for now that a passphrase had been given to the courier, someone must know to say it. And perhaps he could have returned to his own dark empty quarters in the diplomats' wing of the signore's keep; except in this he worked more directly against the signore than he had in months, and—

And he didn't want to, not if he could remain in Aurelio's company instead; not if Aurelio would let him.

It was easy, back in Aurelio's chambers, to act for at least a little while as though nothing had changed. Yes, he took out the quill where Aurelio could see it, which he'd never have done before; but that only set Aurelio asking a flurry of curious questions about which incanti might have been used to do it, and how, and whether there were more of them, and so on and so forth.

But then it was done. Giuanne finished writing—simply over the table this time, as he no longer needed the disguise of vellum. And then he set the quill down, and it was only the two of them in a dim and silent room, and Giuanne couldn't think what to say.

"Giuanne," Aurelio murmured at last, and his voice was so tentative that Giuanne couldn't help but look at him, startled. "Giuanne, you—you've taken all this very seriously, and done what you could to help me, and I'm grateful for it. But please, if you're angry with me, don't pretend you aren't. Surely we're past that now. You needn't try to—to charm me any longer, or make yourself agreeable to me."

Giuanne blinked. He found he wanted to laugh, and he did, and then shook his head. "Angry with you? No. No, of course not. It would—it would be the height of hypocrisy," he added wryly, and then shook his head again. "No, if I am anything, I am glad."

"Glad," Aurelio repeated, staring at him.

"Yes—oh, yes," Giuanne said. "I used to think of it, you know. Of telling you, and what you might say; what you might do. And, believing you wholly innocent, it was—" He stopped, and bit his lip, and yet even that small expression of distress was in itself a strange new freedom, now that he could afford to let Aurelio see him do it. "It was difficult to imagine how you might come to forgive me for it, how I could ever have managed to earn or deserve your pardon.

"And even beyond that, it was—I thought you didn't know me, and that if you ever did know me, you wouldn't understand me. And if you didn't know me, and you didn't understand me, how could you ever—"

He broke off, not quite able to make himself say the word. Because of course honesty wasn't all freedom: before, he could have talked idly to Aurelio of love, murmured sweet sopping words to him to make him laugh, and told himself it didn't matter. But now—now Aurelio knew it did. Surely he must.

He looked up and Aurelio was watching him—watching him and smiling, just a little, and then a little wider, until that dear familiar dimple appeared and Giuanne found himself reaching for it; and Aurelio caught his hand and clasped it, brought it to his mouth and kissed Giuanne's fingertips.

"Ah," he said, against Giuanne's thumb. "Well. Let me put your mind at ease, then. I know you, for I recognized you long ago: I am a liar too, you see."

Giuanne huffed half a laugh through his nose, and Aurelio smiled again and kissed the back of his hand, without looking away.

"And I understand that it must be difficult now, to think that all at once so much of you is seen instead of hidden," he added, more quietly. "For you must know now that you've seen me, too."

And—yes, Giuanne supposed so. He hadn't thought of it that way in the moment, all of himself consumed with the knowledge of his own sudden and unexpected exposure; but Aurelio had had secrets, had given them up to Giuanne and waited to see what Giuanne would do with them. Had let Giuanne hold a knife to his throat, knowing Giuanne had reason to cut if he chose to.

"And as to whether I could?" Aurelio said, eliding precisely what just as Giuanne had done. "I'm afraid that question was answered months ago." He stopped and swallowed, and for a moment looked more uncertain than Giuanne had ever seen him, hand tightening around Giuanne's helplessly. "I do, Giuanne—I already do."

Giuanne should have said something clever, then; something sweet and gentle and forgiving, something that would make Aurelio understand there wasn't anything to fear. But his throat was tight and aching, and he wouldn't have known what words to use even if he could have said them. So instead he pulled against their joined hands and drew Aurelio close against him, and kissed him—once, and again, desperate and much too hard, but Aurelio didn't flinch; he only gasped into Giuanne's mouth, ragged and relieved, and kissed him back.

 

 


End file.
